On August 12, I realised that my asthma was an unwillingness to take life in. That I was alive nevertheless, and remained so, was, for me, one of the many paradoxes of existence, strewn across our path as unsolvable riddles, tough mind candy to chew on. I did not care for His jokes.

On August 13, I had decided to end my life. I instantly knew how I’d do it: I would jump of Jefferson bridge and enjoy the short flight. I calculated that I would fly for 6.34 seconds. In this time span, I wanted to see and experience everything as if for the first time. I was looking forward to the intensity of a prolonged moment of birthlike magic.

On August 14, at 14:45, after an incredibly good Pizza from Joe’s, an otherwise little noteworthy Italian hole in the wall on Grammer St, I let go off the railing and flew towards my death. Earlier, I had sat on these railings for about a minute. Not too long to develop deep fear and not too short, because I did not want to do anything in haste. This was too important.

All the while, though, if I’m honest, I hoped that something or someone would save me.

In fact, I did have my flight, and it was unbelievable. I could not possibly put it into words. You’ll have to go there yourself. The flight was 0.07 seconds longer than I had anticipated due to strong winds that created an updraft, which slowed me down. Those are details.

The interesting thing is that I never hit the surface but found myself instead eyes closed  in a fetal position on my bed at home. I don’t know what happened and I don’t care. I will not, I repeat, I will not do it again. I stopped having asthma attacks, too, and I’m going to get married tomorrow, thank you very much for your good wishes.

consider josie and jamie two girls so harmless they could serve on your neighbourhood watch squad. but when parrysh zephrys asked them to move so that he could park his car more easily (they were queuing in front of the ice cream parlour ably named ‘gross palace’ a favourite teenage hangout) with the words: ladies, would you mind moving up the pavement just a bit? they all but bared their teeth at him: we dont have to do anything you tell us to, said josie. you are not our father, said jamie. parrysh didnt know what to think or reply. it seemed such a simple matter to ask for and he didnt feel old enough to be their father. so he drove around the block and parked half a mile away.

when parrysh reached the ice parlour, josie and jamie were just finishing their cones. they recognised him and waved. hello old man, josie said. pervert, jamie said, just a little too loud not to be overheard. a dozy young man next to her perked up and asked: whazzup, ladies, can i be of assistance? and jamie turned to him: that bloke is a total bore! josie giggled. the young man looked sternly at parrysh who had planned to join the queue, but the two girls were in his way. would you just let me through please, he pleaded. but they wouldnt, this much was clear.

[...a few words about parrysh zephrys, PhD. he was a therapist who
specialised in couples therapy. many divorcees in this town adored
him for his delicate way of getting through to their husbands,
many husbands appreciated his way with women which had helped them
keep their dignity, and even more couples were applying themselves
diligently to their relationships using zephrys method "work it
out or walk away" - also the name of his national bestseller.]

[...josie and jamie though less innocent than their looks, also were
no harpies and no sluts. growing up in a mid-sized town had
however hardened them beyond their years. they were suckers for
attention and stimulation in the form of pills, parties or pancake
breakfasts, and as young women must, they were not going to take
any shit from anyone, the very least from men operating outside
of their mating range.]

[...and the young male bystander - he went through a very sleepy
phase of his life and really did not know what to do with himself
yet. he didnt even think his given name was right for him because
it seemed too unexciting and unpromising to him so that i won't
share it with you either because he might already have changed it
as you read this. neither josie nor jamie were his type-he was in
fact gay but had not disclosed this truth even to himself yet.]

i just want to get an ice cream, parrysh said, i have got nothing to do with either of you, so leave me alone. this was untypical for him. though he was a great assertiveness coach, he had always had problems standing up for himself.

at this point, the young man was willing to turn his back on the situation, and also josie and jamie were losing interest in parrysh who could not easily be wound up. but just as they were beginning to move aside, shrugging, gerry honeychurch who sold the ice in ‘gross palace’ that night, shouted across the crowd: we’re out of chocolate, sorry! this was the flavour for which the ice cream parlour was famous, and it was the only reason why parrysh zephrys had taken his car that he hardly ever used (which is why he lacked training in parking) and driven downtown. something inside him that had possibly been pent up and festered for a long time broke free in this moment: he shook jamie who stood closest to him and cried:

YOU SEE NOW I WONT GET MY CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM ALL BECAUSE OF YOU YOU HORRIBLE GIRL IF YOU HAD JUST LET ME PARK HERE THIS WOULDNT HAVE HAPPENED AND NOW MY EVENING IS RUINED AND ITS ALL YOUR FAULT YOU SILLY SKANKS!

he pushed jamie so that she fell against a car. the girl let loose a high-pitched, indignant scream. her friend used a much-practiced move to quickly pull out her pepper spray and a full load straight into parrysh’s eyes who cried BITCH! and fell to his knees in agony. the young man felt a strong urge to just disappear from view, but instead he threw himself with his entire weight on to the parrysh, got hold of his head and pounded it again and again on the concrete pavement, all the while feeling simultaneously like a lion and like an idiot.

when parrysh zephrys returned home that evening still without ice cream in his belly but enriched by experience and a whole lot more street-wise than before, after two hours in the police station which resulted in the officer john wesson-smith hearing the life stories of four individuals recently linked by a pathetic row in front of ‘gross palace’ (the ice cream parlour whose name i do not seem to tire of mentioning), he was happy and didnt know why. only later it occurred to him that he had touched and had been touched not just emotionally and that he was glad to have left the all-too-comfortable position of the one who only looks at malaise and misery as if on the outside, always on the outside.

© 2009 finnegan flawnt

they sit in the kitchen dinner is long over but they feel hungry still. so they eat swedish crackers with butter and fennel salami from milano. they are tempted to smoke again, but don’t do it. the woman puts her legs on the table and crosses them below the knee. she wears pink and white striped socks, jeans, a t-shirt and a thin blue sweater. after the crackers she gets out a trail mix she created herself. no almonds, she says, we havent got any almonds. the man sits down to write because he hasnt written all day. i dont really want to, he says and grumbles. you better do it, she says. you’re right, i gotta stay on the ball, he says. he fires up the small computer and longs for a cigarette which he knows to be a major distraction. as he writes word after word, he watches her over his glasses munching nuts and dried apples and rice cakes. he is out of words. she asks him a question, he shows her the finger. twitter makes you aggressive, she says. do you really think so, he asks. she is right, he thinks. this is not a way to behave nor is it a way to treat your woman. she smiles at him, thankful that he shows some remorse, and turns to her book. what are you reading? he asks. color of magic by terry pratchett, she says, and: anything else you’d like to know? it’s not an invitation, really. she puts the book down. looks at him, a long look, and lets an even longer silence follow. twitter’s all banter, she says. she is right, he thinks, and writes on. he is not logged on now, as they call it. logged, that’s not real, not trees or loggers, real men. when you’re logged, you’re connected, and when you’re connected, you’re on the net, it must be a kind of work, he thinks, or else it wouldn’t be called net-working. he thinks of a disgusting cronenberg movie where the people put video tapes in their bodies. he can’t remember the actual plot or the ending. it doesn’t matter. it’s the same thing – except that our bodies aren’t altered, they are simply ignored. it’s a lot more powerful, he says. what did you say? she says, what is a lot more powerful? he explains. she wrinkles her forehead. she is beautiful, right here, right now, when she thinks about what he says and shows it. her fine toes in the striped socks wriggle. he knows that she can put the second toe over the big toe which he can’t do. it’s a birth defect or a granted privilege, depends on how you look at it, he thinks. he forgets about logging and all that virtual stuff right here, right now, at the kitchen table covered with crumbs and the butter dish and dirty knives, and a book that looks like a fat fallen butterfly on its back. you are beautiful, he says. she smiles and says, you looked at me for 10 minutes straight just now, how can i not be beautiful. now he smiles and closes the laptop.

© 2009 finnegan flawnt